He stiffened. His brow furrowed slightly. Sensing the tender spot and fueled by his reaction, Vera pounced, just as she had with Arthur.

“Oh, that’s not it,” she said with saccharine sweetness. She hated herself right now. “So, what was it? Why is it that my only memory of you from before is looking at you and being disgusted?”

Lancelot recoiled like she’d slapped him. The line of his mouth went thin. He wasn’t going to answer.

“Un-fucking-believable!” Vera shouted, throwing her hands up in the air. “You’re still keeping secrets from me. This isn’t friendship! You don’t get to sit there high and mighty and try to tell me about who I am and who I love when you can’t even be honest about yourself. Too terrible to name, is it? What rotten thing did you do that you’d rather I forget forever?”

He trained his stare across the room, away from her, as red blotches bloomed on his neck. There was nothing Vera could dream up that might make her hate Lancelot, but her words struck a nerve, and she would not yield.

“If you can’t tell me the truth, then get the fuck out,” she said.

Vera’s brutal façade nearly broke at the hurt she found in his expression.

He rose and walked to the door. She only had to last a few more seconds, and then she could collapse into the puddle of her agony. But the sound of the door’s latch never came. She chanced a look. Lancelot’s hand was poised above the knob.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, swiftly turning to her. “I know what this is.”

There was that cocky sense of knowing. “Fuck off,” Vera said.

“No.” He shook his head and strode back to her. “I’m not going to fuck off.”

“Why? Want to come back for more insult hurling—”

“Shut up,” Lancelot said.

“Excuse me, did you just—”

“Yes, I did.” He came very close to her, so Vera had nowhere to look but at him as he said emphatically, “Shut. Up. You’re not going to push me away. You’re my best mate.”

Vera snorted. “Arthur’s your best mate.” It sounded childish.

“Shut up,” he said for the third time in half a minute. “I see what you’re doing—trying to make it easier when you’re gone, that it? Pushing us away to soften the blow? Make yourself less worthy of existing?” Vera clenched her teeth to keep from reacting. “Well, guess what, Guinna? You are fucking worthy.”

It broke her. Her breath hitched as the rage disrobed for what it truly was: fear. “I’m not. I betrayed him. I betrayed all of you. I was saved to remember so that I can make this right. If my life continuing is at the expense of all of you—”

“You don’t know that it will be!”

“I can’t risk that. I am not worth risking that! How can you not understand this? This is my purpose. Remembering is all that I’m good for.”

“No,” he said, taking her hands and holding them to his chest. “It is not.”

There was a knock at the door with barely time to register it had happened before Merlin’s muffled voice said, “Guinevere? Are you ready yet?”

Lancelot gaped at her. “You have got to be kidding.” He stalked over to the door and flung it open. “Fuck you, Merlin,” he said with the deepest, most ardent sincerity. He slammed the door shut and turned back to Vera. “I will not allow this.”

“It’s not your choice!” she said. She made for the door, but Lancelot stepped in front of her and blocked her way. Vera shoved him hard in the chest. It didn’t even cause him to stumble. The sound of the door opening drew her attention as Merlin entered.

Lancelot hadn’t looked away from her, hadn’t so much as blinked. “If you were in my place,” she said more gently, appealing to his sense of duty, “if the answer to all this suffering was in your mind, you would do it in a heartbeat.”

“No. I wouldn’t,” he said stubbornly.

A scornful laugh burst from Vera. “This is my life—my body. This is not your choice!”

“You’re right,” Merlin interjected. “And it is a courageous one that you are making.”

Lancelot gritted his teeth and breathed heavily through his nose. “Fine,” he said as he turned to face the mage. “And here’s my choice.” He drew his sword. “You want to do this? Fine. But not while there’s breath in my body.”

Oh fuck.

“Lancelot, don’t—” Vera grabbed his arm, but he shook her off, eyes fixed on Merlin.

“That is unwise,” Merlin said coolly.

Lancelot laughed far louder than was appropriate. “Unwise? You saved your queen’s life so that you could bend it for your own designs. And I’m unwise to stand in your way? And what would happen if Arthur comes back and finds his wife dead on the floor? Then what?”

“I don’t know.” Merlin’s calm slipped as he said it, a glimmer of loathing flashing in his eyes. “I was not there, nor was I responsible the last time he found his wife dead on the floor.”

What did that mean? Lancelot’s eyes darkened. He raised his sword and reached back to lay a protective hand on Vera.

Merlin’s mastery over himself collapsed. “I would end you without even taking a breath.”

Lancelot’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Ah. There it is,” he said. “You’ve been holding that in for a long time.”

“Stop it!” Vera cried.

Merlin blinked, his gaze flitting to her as if he only just remembered she was an important part of this conversation.

“I—I was wrong to say that,” he said. “I would never … Guinevere, he loves you. I can see that. I’m glad for it, but Lancelot does not understand what I do.”

Vera stepped forward, gently pushing Lancelot’s sword arm down. This time, he yielded and let her pass him without a word, only a plea in his eyes.

“He doesn’t understand that I gave you all the life I possibly could,” Merlin said. “There was a reason you were the last one I brought back. I wanted it to be one of the others so that you could go on and never bear this burden.” He tilted his head thoughtfully to the side. “I’ll forsake humility and tell you how proud I am that I chose Martin and Allison to be your parents. They were perfect. And you. You, child, were special. The way you persisted in finding beauty and light even in the limitations of your life … I gave you all I could.”

He had. He really had. Vera’d had more than she ever deserved. How many children had ever been so loved, had seen so many glorious sunrises with full bellies and safe arms to run to, had gotten to fill the shoes of a queen and live in a legend even for a short while?

“Guinna, please,” Lancelot moaned from behind her.

“I know you’ve had hard days,” Merlin continued as Vera took another step toward him. “And I didn’t leave you to suffer then, either. When I let Vincent remember you—”

“What?” Vera stopped.

“Yes,” he said with a benevolent smile. “An intentional lapse in the magic that kept you unnoticeable for—”

“You controlled who could remember me?”

The smile faltered. Vera saw Merlin begin to realize that what he had thought was shocked gratitude was nothing of the sort. Her world was spinning, but his words had turned a key, and pieces began clicking into place. In her former life, when she was Guinevere, she’d clearly suffered from depression. And with the two who came after, intent on their own destruction …

“You were afraid I’d end my life before I was ready to come back here, weren’t you?” Vera asked. Merlin inhaled sharply but did not speak. “So you gave me Vincent when I was at my most miserable.”

Had any of her life been her own?

It’s your choice. Merlin had first said it that evening in the pub in Glastonbury, right on the heels of telling her existence would crumble if she didn’t abide by his wishes.

That was how it had been every time. Every “choice” came after Merlin offered no other feasible option.

“You have never given me a choice. You painted me into corners. You controlled my entire life.” She only realized the breadth of her statement’s truth as she said it out loud.